brand new you. [andrew day four]

[dars]

The darkness, present as it was, wasn't enough to obscure Andrew Priest from any who might have cared to see him. He'd strung up a bag of raw flour- which he found while rummaging the storerooms in the tavern- on the limbs of an old oak right on the treeline, turned it into a makeshift punching bag. But as he stood there, his hands wrapped in bandages, sweat dripping down his bare torso, breaths quick and labored, he guessed he didn't care to be seen. The person he was right now is not the person he felt confident in knowing.

Survival was grueling, which should have felt obvious and it was. But the particularly devastating parts were the ones he hadn't ever heard anyone speak of- the ones that sneaked their way inside through the open windows and the propped back doors. The process of survival, for instance, the need to constantly chip away certain pieces of oneself to continue to fit the standard and go on living with oneself. That was the brutal part.

He punched the bag. Nothing felt better. He punched it again, and again, and again, the wound from Cordelia on the first day reopening at some point and leaving bloody knuckle imprints all over the surface of the flour bag in the process. He went until he could no longer, until he was only his anger and his hands and his rasping, gasping throat. Still, nothing felt better.

He swung one last time and his fist broke through the burlap surface. When he pulled it out, a cloud of white puffed into the silvery light of the moon, and he watched it disperse in the air. He was left staring at the tavern behind him, at his friends who'd be expecting him from his bath in the river soon so that they could leave while they had the cover of night to hide them. So they claimed. But standing there, the darkness still did nothing to hide him from the world- this was a place designed to make any condition the perfect for killing an enemy. There was no hiding here. Not from the the gamemakers, not from the other tributes, and not from themselves.

He flicked the flour from his hand.

He was still gonna try.

The baby dragon made a fussing noise, which would have sounded to an untrained pair of ears like the haunting hiss of a snake, but Andrew knew meant a certain someone was hungry. He knelt down to her.

"Me too, girl," he chuckled, scratching her head, "I'll be quick cleaning up, then let's see if we can find something to eat inside. Maybe there's a cupboard or a cookie jar or something. Can dragons eat cookies?"

At the mention of the word cookie, her little ears fluttered. Stupidly and flippantly, Andrew felt a spark of excitement in his chest, and he tried the word again- "Cookie?" She stood and shook her head, bounding toward him. No way. No way.

"Finally!!"

It looked like he'd found the right name at last.

"C'mon, Cooks. Let's get going."

A N D R E W P R I E S T